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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084748">the mortifying ordeal of being known</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceblinks/pseuds/iceblinks'>iceblinks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>IKEA, IKEA Furniture, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Slice of Life, discussions of ikea swivel chair, discussions of paint colors, ikea swivel chair, it's all very domestic, the inherent romanticism of ikea furniture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:41:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>767</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceblinks/pseuds/iceblinks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are three IKEA discount vouchers sitting atop Shinsuke’s kitchen table.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the mortifying ordeal of being known</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> The operative fallacy here is that we believe that unconditional love means not seeing anything negative about someone, when it really means pretty much the opposite: loving someone despite their infuriating flaws and essential absurdity. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> — Tim Kreider, “I Know What You Think of Me” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There are three IKEA discount vouchers sitting atop Shinsuke’s kitchen table. </p><p>“Shinsuke,” Atsumu says. He is also sitting atop Shinsuke’s kitchen table, which is listing markedly left. His legs rest on the accompanying chair, elbows against its back, head resting on his fists—a delicate balancing act of limbs too heavy for their joints. “Do we need a swivel chair?”</p><p>Shinsuke considers this. His desk chair is hard-backed and wooden, built by his grandfather some thirty-five years ago. His grandmother had pushed it onto him when Shinsuke had moved into his apartment just outside of Himeji. As far as chairs go, it’s comfortable. It aligns perfectly with the cutout in his desk. </p><p>“No,” he decides. </p><p>“I <em> knew </em>you’d say that. Just—okay, hold on, give me a second.” Atsumu pulls his phone out of his pocket. The table creaks. “It’s not what you think it is.”</p><p>He shoves his phone under Shinsuke’s nose. Shinsuke blinks, pulls back, takes the phone. </p><p>“This is what you call <em> the future,” </em> Atsumu says, spreading his arms like a particularly ornate blown-glass bird. His T-shirt is rumpled. “There’s a <em> cover, </em>Shinsuke. Isn’t it beautiful?”</p><p>“Seems awfully claustrophobic.” The chair is vaguely egg-shaped and does, indeed, have a cover. It looks useful if one would like to simulate being in the womb, or maybe a butterfly’s metamorphosis. He cannot imagine it in the corner of his apartment. “I wouldn’t know where to put it. Besides, I doubt I’d fit.”</p><p>“You’re underestimating IKEA again.” Atsumu grins, wide and vaguely threatening. “This thing is fuckin’ <em> huge, </em>okay. If I can fit, so can you.”</p><p>Atsumu is one hundred and eighty-eight centimeters, rounding up. One-ninety, rounding up more vaguely. Atsumu, Shinsuke knows, enjoys the vague parameters of rounding.</p><p>“It looks uncomfortable.”</p><p><em> “You </em>look uncomfortable.”</p><p>“I still don’t need it,” he says, handing the phone back. </p><p>“Damn. I was hopin’ you’d say yes. Bokkun and I were planning on getting one together, but neither of us has room.”</p><p>“I’m your second choice, then?” It comes out too fond. There is something intrinsically affectionate about these mornings with Atsumu, light spilling through the blinds and refracting off of his bleached-blond hair, his bleached-sun skin. It’s routine. Peaceful. Life at twenty-four is nothing if not peaceful. The only surprises in his life are when Atsumu shows up unannounced on his doorstep, his fist raised to knock on the door. Shinsuke gave him the spare key a few months ago. Several days a week, now, he will come home to find a pair of beat-up sneakers already deposited in the genkan. </p><p>“You know that’s not true,” Atsumu says. Gently. He’s always been gentle around Shinsuke. His phone <em> clicks </em>softly as he presses the power button. </p><p>“I already have a desk chair.” It comes out halfway apologetic, and Shinsuke winces. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, break my heart and stomp on it while it’s down, why don’tcha.” Atsumu smiles and swipes the vouchers off of the table, which wobbles precariously on its legs. “I’ll ask Shouyou, he might say yes.”</p><p>He hops down from the table. Shinsuke exhales.</p><p>It’s not about the desk chair, he wants to say. He’d chosen an apartment in Himeji because it was only an hour and a half away from Osaka. He’d chosen Himeji so that his colander-shaped heart could more comfortably continue to grow Atsumu-shaped holes. </p><p>Atsumu looks perfectly at home in his kitchen. Like he’d touched down one day and just decided it was where he was going to <em> be, </em>right between the rice cooker and the cheese grater and Kita Shinsuke’s idiosyncratic heart. </p><p>“The paint’s chipping over here,” Atsumu calls, crouched down in front of the wall behind Shinsuke’s recycling bin. “I’m off this Friday, I could help you repaint it.”</p><p>A compromise. Atsumu offers up his soul in increments. Shinsuke has amassed eight years’ worth of breadcrumbs inside of his own.</p><p>“Please,” Shinsuke says. “That would be nice.”</p><p>Atsumu offers up his soul in cupped hands. He is overconfident and unsure and in love with the inner workings of the universe. Shinsuke places the spare key—glinting, cold metal—atop his palms.</p><p>“Scotland Road is a pretty nice color. Cloud White, too.”</p><p>Thank you, Shinsuke wants desperately to say, for your trust in me. I will pay you back. I hope this is enough. </p><p>He goes to slice an orange instead.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.ikea.com/us/en/p/ikea-ps-loemsk-swivel-chair-white-red-10407136/">swivel chair</a>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/06/15/i-know-what-you-think-of-me/">i know what you think of me</a>
</p><p>it is 10:30 am. why am i up so early. this took two hours</p><p>goign back to bed now</p></blockquote></div></div>
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